Marina’s eyes snapped open. Her heart was pounding, her breathing fast, erratic. It was dark, quiet in her room, so why the hell was she wide awake at—she glanced over at the clock—two-eighteen?

Thunk.

She frowned. Was that what had woken her?

Thunk. Thunk.

There it was again. She sat up, tried to place the sound. It almost sounded as if… God, why would someone be chopping wood? In her back yard?

She grabbed a robe, slipping her phone into the pocket. After making sure Sam was still sleeping, she moved through the dark house to the back door. She looked out the kitchen window, but didn’t have a clear view of her backyard, not where the wood pile was anyway.

Thunk.

Marina kept her steps quiet, tried not to think about every horror movie she’d ever seen, tried to convince herself that she wasn’t the dumb chick who should have stayed inside and called the police.

She froze in place when she rounded the corner of the house. Even in the shadows she could see it was Roarke, naked to the waist, making each swing of the axe look effortless. An axe that wasn’t hers.

She’d only seen him once all week and that’d been from a distance. He’d arrived when the roof repairs were finished, inspecting as much of the work as he could without getting up on the ladder. Even on crutches he’d made a commanding figure and it’d been clear the roofing guys respected the hell out of him. His dark gaze had met hers once—sizzling and bold—before he’d left without a word.

She’d thought sex with Roarke would have been wild and rough, untamed. He’d been confident, dominating and forceful, but every touch had been gentle. He’d been so focused on her, so careful of her pleasure, so determined. Who would have guessed a man that hard, that strong, that…savage to everyone around him, was capable of that level of tenderness?

Of course, she’d never had sex like that, figured great sex was either a lie or just something she wasn’t likely to experience for herself. One of those one-in-a-million things. Things that happened to other people.

“Thanks,” he muttered, without looking at her, bending to put another log up on the stump.

She’d never seen anyone chop wood using a single crutch for balance before. She guessed Roarke had probably figured out how to do a lot of things with crutches no else would attempt. She’d tried several times to make some of the logs into useable firewood. Each time she’d given up.

“For?”

She wrapped the robe more securely around her and crossed her arms. It wasn’t really cold, but there was a gentle breeze and she hadn’t put any shoes on. Her toes were starting to go numb.

“For not asking me what I’m doing,” he rasped. “It’s pretty fucking obvious.”

He swung the axe in a smooth arc, splitting the wood in to two even pieces. The muscles under the smooth skin of his back and arms slid and flexed with the effort.

“So why are you out here in the middle of the night doing that which is pretty fucking obvious?”

He picked up the halves, tossed them onto the pile that was almost as high as her waist.

“These logs are too big to use in the fireplace.”

Right. Of course. She knew that, had tried the whole chopping thing a few times herself. It was way harder than it looked, which is why she’d resorted to buying wood at the store when she wanted to light the fire. Which wasn’t very often. Because she had to buy logs from the store.

His movements were almost mesmerizing to watch, controlled and powerful. He made it look so easy.

“Don’t you dare,” she warned when one downward swing of the axe had him rebalancing the crutch.

“What?”

“Fall. There’s no way I’d be able to lift you up.”

He choked out a sound that could have been a laugh, his version of one anyway. He bent to set another large log on the block.

“Roarke.”

He ignored her, swung the axe down. She stepped in front of him after he’d tossed the pieces out of the way, so close he couldn’t do anything else but look at her.

“You gonna swear at me?” he bit out.

“If I need to.”

He glanced down, frowned when he noticed the bat she held in her hand.

“You came out here in the dark by yourself with a fucking baseball bat?”

“No. It’s a softball bat.”

His lips tightened and his dark brows shot low over eyes. “I could have been anyone.”

She tilted her head to the side. “I don’t think a peeping Tom would want to make sure I was prepared for winter.”

“Marina—”

“Why are you here, Roarke?”

He huffed out a breath. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“So you decided to come chop my wood?”

His wiped his forehead with a rough sweep of his forearm. “I noticed the pile when I was here before. Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“In the middle of the night.”

“Like I said, I couldn’t sleep.”

“Why not?”

He looked down then. Her eyes widened when he flipped the sharp axe end-over-end, the handle landing in his palm with deadly precision. “Yeah, that you don’t want to know.”

“Roarke—”

“Look, I usually run, okay? I trash the treadmill or hit the streets.”

Okay. And neither were an option right now.

“Come inside, Roarke.”

God, she hadn’t meant it as a double entendre. She hadn’t. But when his gaze locked to hers, heat speared out from there, right where her dirty mind was already imaging him—his mouth, his fingers, his impressive cock.

Heat flooded her face.

“I’m not here for sex,” he ground out.

“Right. You came to.” She made finger quotes with her hands. “Chop wood.”

Even in the low light she could see his mouth lift at one corner. He glanced back toward the house.

“Where’s your kid?”

“Asleep. She won’t wake up. She sleeps like the dead.”

He was silent for a heartbeat, two. “I’ll leave right after.”

She let out an unsteady breath, gave a rueful smile. She wouldn’t have expected anything else.

* * * * *

Marina closed the door to her room, leaned back against it. Her heartbeat was racing so fast and so loud, he could probably hear it.

He hadn’t bothered putting his shirt back on and he threw it onto the foot of her bed. Holy hell, but his back was a thing of beauty—smooth, muscled, powerful.

He stopped in front of the big chair by her bed and turned, flipping the crutches upside down and leaning them against the wall.

Marina took a deep, steadying breath. It didn’t help much. Maybe not at all. Her gaze dropped. He was hard, straining the confines of the denim.

There was no hesitation, no modesty. He jerked at the opening of his jeans, yanking them down with his underwear. He sat on the chair and leaned back, muscled thighs spread wide, his cock thick and long against his stomach.

Oh God.

“Take off the robe.”

Cursing the tremors in her hands, Marina shrugged off the robe and let it drop to the floor. She was wearing men’s pajama bottoms and a tank top, yet from the hot, explicit look in his eyes it could have been the sexiest lingerie.

“The pants too.”

She swallowed against her dry throat and tugged off the pants, kicking them aside.

“Leave it,” he rasped, as she grabbed the hem of her tank top. “I want to take it off.”

He held out a hand and her heart thundered so hard it was almost deafening. She stepped forward and his hard hands bracketed her hips, eased her down and over him until she sat, straddling his lap, the hair on his thighs rasping against the sensitive flesh of her inner legs. She shivered at the sensation.

“Christ, look at you.”

Rough fingers grasped the bottom of her tank top, dragging it up, slow, agonizingly slow, until she felt the cool air against her nipples.

“I need to taste.”

Oh God.

He bent, licked first one nipple, teasing, taunting licks, then the other, alternating between them until she couldn’t help the involuntary movements of her lower body against his thighs. He wasn’t sucking hard, pulling or biting at them. He didn’t use his hands, only his mouth, and he was lapping at her, mindless flicks and licks and it sent a shaft of pure sensation straight to her clit. It felt as if the smallest touch from him there and it’d be game over.

“I can feel how hot and wet you are against me,” he rasped.

So could she.

“Put your knees up on the arms of the chair.”

“I—what?”

He urged her up until she knelt on each of the thick, sturdy arms. She gasped when his hands cupped the curves of her ass, sliding down to the crease between.

Was he trembling? She thought she felt it in the hands holding her, but it could have come from her.

One hand trailed around her hip and she jumped when he rubbed a thumb back and forth across her soaked clit. She throbbed, ached, burned and then she couldn’t think, could only feel, as he inserted a thick finger inside her.

“Roarke,” she moaned and flexed involuntarily around him.

He groaned, his gaze fixed between her legs, watching her, watching his finger as he moved it slowly in and out of her, retreating all the way and then sinking back in.

His nostrils flared. “Fuck. You always smell incredible.”

Before she could guess his intention he leaned forward and put his mouth against her.

Her whole body jerked at the contact. Fighting for breath, struggling for some semblance of sanity, Marina looked down. His eyes, dark and raw, were watching her, causing a heat she’d never experienced before to burn through her.

Marina ground herself against him, pushed herself hard against his mouth, his tongue, God, that finger.

All at once he grasped her hips and lifted her away from his mouth, down so that she straddled him again. Cool air washed against flesh that was hot, wet and aching. She’d been so close. She had to bite her lip to stop herself from begging him to continue, offering him anything if he’d just do it again, but he was already ripping open the condom packet.

“Hurry,” she whispered, her voice ragged, as she eased back on his thighs to give him room.

He rolled the condom on with sharp, jerky moves. She’d never watched a guy put one on before Roarke. She liked it. A lot. Maybe it should have been a turn-off, but Roarke? Touching himself? Yeah, she might just go up in flames at how hot and dirty it made her feel.

“I want to watch it go in,” he grated.

She positioned herself over him, her legs shaking with need. He grasped his cock and rubbed himself back and forth through her slick folds, applying just enough pressure to have her gasping and rocking against him. She gripped his thick shoulders for balance, wanting to slam herself down onto him, but he held her hips, controlled his entry.

“Easy,” he rasped.

He thrust up against her, slow and shallow, patient. She whimpered at the sensation of stretching, her moisture slowly easing his path, his thickness a living brand inside her. All at once she wanted more, she wanted all of him, as much of him as she could take.

“Roarke please, please—”

He groaned and eased his hold on her hips. She sank down onto him, bit by bit, filling herself with his broad length. She sucked in a breath, felt her wet heat flex and clench around him when he was deep.

“Move.”

His voice was harsh, barely recognizable, his features drawn in hard lines. Marina used the leverage from his shoulders to lift her body, to rock herself on him. Sweet, searing sensation—so good it almost felt like pain—surged through her as she repeated the move, over and over, with frenzied jerks of her hips.

She whimpered as her body went taut, froze for an endless second as pleasure burst and full-body tremors raged through her.

Roarke groaned, low and deep, his hot breath fanning her breasts, pulling her body down onto him, hard, while he thrust under her with powerful movements of his hips, pistoning his body into hers through her orgasm.

“Holy shit,” he managed after they were both still, the sound of their ragged breathing loud in the quiet room.

Yeah.

She opened eyes and saw the fingers of her hand clenched in the back of the arm chair, the one she’d inherited from her great-aunt. She blew back a strand of hair that had fallen across her eyes.

One thing was certain. She was never going to be able to sit in this chair again and not remember what she’d done in it.

* * * * *

Roarke opened his eyes, keeping the rest of his body still. It was a habit ingrained in him that he’d never been able to break, not even after all this time—to wake and assess the surroundings for risk before making his consciousness known.

He knew in an instant it was late. And that he wasn’t in his own bed.

He’d dressed—after—ready to leave, except he hadn’t. He’d stayed to watch Marina sleep for a few minutes and…

Fuck.

He’d never done that before, fallen so deeply asleep in a strange place. Spent the night with a woman. Slept—he glanced at his watch—shit, for a straight four hours.

Marina was still sleeping, her breathing soft and even. She lay on her stomach, only partly covered. The sheet had slipped down or she’d kicked it off and he had a full view of her naked back and curvy ass. And the dark, shadowed cleft between.

He wanted to crawl into bed with her, over her. Hell, he wanted to yank the sheet down all the way, spread her ass cheeks wide and plow into her from behind until the mindless pleasure she could create in him rolled over him. He wanted to see her body stretch to accommodate him, watch her ass wiggle, her legs tremble as she came. He wanted to hear those soft sounds she made when he entered her.

He hadn’t come here last night for sex. He hadn’t. Although what she could do to him beat out any amount of thrashing he could give his treadmill.

He rubbed his hand down over his face. He needed a shower and coffee—bad—and not necessarily in that order. And he needed to get his ass back to work. He also had a doctor’s appointment, which meant he might be able to finally ditch the crutches.

He kept his movements light, shut the bedroom door carefully behind him and turned to go.

Aw, crap.

She had Marina’s eyes. The same color, the same shape and that same calm way of looking at him.

“Hey,” he offered in greeting.

Christ, what did you say to a kid anyway? What did he? Especially one who’d caught him sneaking out of her Mom’s bedroom.

“Hey.”

She nodded, waited. For what?

“Um…”

God, she was just a kid. Why was his stomach tied in knots all of a sudden?

She tilted her head to the side. “My name’s Samantha, but I like Sam better. Yeah, I’m cute.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m nine. My Dad’s not here.”

When Roarke frowned, she shrugged.

“People always ask me where my Dad is when I’m not with my Mom.”

Oh, did they? Yeah, he guessed they figured they could pump a kid for information to satisfy their curiosity. Fuckers.

“Why don’t you tell them to mind their own business?” he drawled.

When her eyebrows went high, he cleared his throat. “Just…you know, maybe in a nicer way than that.”

Christ, he of all people should not be giving a kid advice.

“Do you want to know where he is?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“If I did, I’d ask your Mom. Just like everyone else should.”

He had no right to be around kids for God’s sake. She stood looking at him, calm, waiting. Again. For what?

“Okay.” She sighed and started counting off on her fingers. “I’m nine. And a half. Yes, I know I look like my Mom. I like to read and play softball. No, I don’t like school. Mainly because it’s boring.”

Gutsy and matter-of-fact. Just like Marina.

“Get tired of being asked the same questions all the time, huh?”

She rolled her eyes again. “You have no idea.”

He fought a smile and lost.

“Well, I’m Roarke. I’m…a friend of your Mom’s. I’m way older than nine and I like to work with my hands, to make things. I never liked school either, mainly because I was never any good at it.”

“Can you do hair?”

“Do…hair?”

What did that even mean?

“You said you were good with your hands. Mommy can’t hardly even do a ponytail.”

“Ah…”

“I’m hungry. I can show you where everything is in the kitchen.”

There was a clear expectation there. The kid was fully dressed, shoes and all. He looked back toward the bedroom door. Did he really want the kid to go in there and find Marina naked? Probably not.

“Ah…okay, but my ability to make food is limited to what I eat,” he warned.

She nodded and Roarke followed her down the hall and into the kitchen at the back of the house. It was clean and light. Everything was original to the house and the appliances had seen better days. Probably about ten years ago.

He opened the fridge, wondering how the hell he’d agreed to get a kid breakfast. Eggs. Juice. Easy. Seemed like a good start. He was hungry himself.

“What happened to your leg?”

He leaned one of the crutches against the cabinet so he could maneuver better in the same space.

“Long story.”

He glanced at her when she didn’t say anything else. She looked at him for so long, Roarke was back to wondering what the fuck to say, to do.

“You have scared eyes,” she whispered.

Scared? Not scary? That one he’d heard before.

“Yeah? There’s a lot of scary stuff in the world, kid.”

He had no clue what she meant, except that this tiny person, who looked and sounded so much like Marina, pretty much terrified the crap out of him.

* * * * *

Shit.

Marina skidded to a stop when she got to the kitchen, her heart still beating so fast she was breathless from it after she’d found Sam’s bed empty.

Sam was sitting at the breakfast bar next to Roarke, her pose an exact replica of his—legs spread wide on the stool, one ankle resting on a knee. Eating scrambled eggs. Her daughter had never eaten scrambled eggs before in her life, had refused to even try them.

Oh boy.

She’d never dated, had never introduced any man to her daughter before and had certainly never had one stay the night. And God, she’d assumed—expected—Roarke would have been long gone.

“Wow, that is so cool.”

Marian couldn’t see what her daughter was looking at, but her heart skipped a beat at the smile in her voice.

“Can you show me how to do it?”

“Ah…”

She never got to hear what Roarke’s response would have been. Sam’s arm swung wide, reaching across to Roarke for something and hit a glass, knocking it over and spilling juice all over the breakfast bar.

Marina stood frozen, watching the sticky liquid drip down onto the floor and onto Roarke’s thigh.

Sam jumped down off the stool, eyes wide, horrified, as Roarke righted the glass.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was high, panicked almost. “I didn’t mean it.”

“It’s just an accident, kid. You okay?”

Roarke’s works were calm, even, yet still Sam waited and Marina’s heart clenched. Stuart was always impatient with her if she spilled or broke something and she’d come to expect his annoyance, even his anger.

Marina was just about to step forward and intervene when Roarke turned on the stool to face Sam.

“What do you normally do if you make a mess?”

Her still wide eyes dropped to the dark patch on his jeans. “But—”

“I can’t tell you it doesn’t matter if you screw up, but what matters more is how you fix it.”

Sam gave a serious nod and went to the roll of paper towels Marina kept on the countertop near the sink. Marina stood—mesmerized—while Sam wiped up the juice, frowning in concentration as she made sure she got every last drop.

The surface would have to be wiped down again to get rid of the stickiness, but Jeez, did she just get a parenting lesson from Roarke?

He glanced up then, his searing gaze sweeping her from head to foot in a look she knew missed nothing. God, she was a mess. She’d stopped just long enough to yank on her robe and that was it.

He got up from the stool and grabbed the crutch he’d propped next to him.

His powerful body—honed and rugged in the faded jeans and close fitting black t-shirt—dominated the space in her small kitchen. And one simple look from him and she was right back there again, against him, over him. She bit her lip at the heat that surged through her, at the images that threatened to burn her alive.

“I saved it!” Sam exclaimed, holding up a figure. “Mommy, look what Roarke made.”

Marina stepped forward and frowned. It looked like a dragon made out of the notepaper she used for her grocery lists.

“That’s incredible,” she breathed. The detail was amazing, intricate folds and layers creating a 3-D form that looked exactly like a miniature dragon, wings and all.

She caught his gaze. “How did you do that?”

He shrugged as if it were nothing.

“I—”

She broke off when the doorbell rang and almost groaned out loud. Stuart might miss the mark on a lot of things, but he was always on time.

“Sam—”

“I know. I know. I’ll go get my bag.” She waved the dragon up above her head as she skipped off. “Thank you, Roarke.”

“Roarke, I—”

The doorbell rang again and she sighed.

“Um…excuse me,” she muttered.

God, awkward much? Marina tied the robe more tightly around her waist before she opened the door.

Stuart had his hands thrust into the pockets of his perfectly pressed khakis, impatience stamped on his features. She’d once thought him so handsome. Now he just seemed too polished, too smooth, too…uptight.

“Stuart. Sam’s just getting her things.”

“Marina.” His expression said she’d looked better. Way better. Lucky for her she didn’t care what he thought any more.

He cleared his throat. “I wanted to let you know that after this weekend, I might not be able to take Sam for awhile.”

“What?” Was he kidding? “How long is ‘awhile’?”

“I’m not sure. A few months perhaps, just until—”

“A few months? It’s her birthday in three weeks. Did you even remember? What am I supposed to tell her? That you’re too busy?”

He sighed, shook his head. “I knew you’d be difficult.”

“Difficult?” she almost choked out.

He glanced back toward his car parked out front. “Caroline wants me to spend more time with her and the baby.”

“So? You have two children, Stuart. You barely see Sam now.”

God, it was called fucking responsibility. She wanted to yell it at him, but then he’d complain about her language and lack of “class”.

“Jim stepped out of the practice. I’m working a lot of extra hours right now to pick up the slack until we bring someone else on. Caroline wants a vacation place, another baby and…”

“So?”

She didn’t know who the fuck Jim was and didn’t care. And that was her problem…how?

“So cut me some slack here. I’ve got a lot of balls in the air right now.”

Yeah, one of them was a membership to an exclusive country club. And let’s not forget the brand new Mercedes.

She’d chosen wrong, so wrong. For her. And God…for Sam. She’d been seduced by his charm and his pretty words and his confidence in knowing who he was and what he wanted to do with his life. Unfortunately, it looked as if that hadn’t involved either of them long-term.

She pitched her voice low. “This is probably the shittiest thing you’ve ever done, Stuart. And you’ve done a lot of shitty things.”

His mouth curled in distaste. “I see your language hasn’t improved.”

“Everything okay?”

Marina sucked in a quick breath at the deep voice at her back. Roarke stood directly behind her, his dark eyes steady on Stuart. He held himself still, a leashed predatory power in every line of his body. His presence and two words, just two words from him, and some of the tension eased out of her shoulders.

She nodded.

“I need to get going,” he added. “You sure?”

God, how did he do that? Make her feel safe and protected and hot and bothered all at once? Next to him Stuart seemed weak and whiny and… Well, just weak.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

He inclined his head and eased passed her, his big body brushing against hers. She had an instant of hard heat before it was gone.

Marina hid a smile at the look on Stuart’s face, especially when Roarke pushed passed him—forcing him to take his hands out of his pockets and step back.

The crutches should have made him seem awkward, but even they couldn’t detract from the lean power of his body, the easy, fluid way he moved.

Stuart watched him until he got to the sidewalk. “Who’s that?”

She ignored the question. “You know, Stuart, I’ve been meaning to apologize to you about something.”

His gaze snapped to hers. He frowned. “For what exactly?”

Yeah, he’d know she really didn’t have anything to be sorry for.

“For not being more understanding when you tried to explain to me what you saw in Caroline, what you’d found with her, how it was between the two of you.”

“Ah…”

“How what we had had been so…routine, vanilla. Boring.”

He shifted from one foot to the other. “I… I never actually said that.”

It was close enough. And it’d hurt, more than she’d ever admit. Stuart might have been a self-absorbed sexist asshole, but he’d been right all along about something. He’d even used it as justification for his fucking around. Their sex really had been unexciting, uninteresting and downright boring.

“Anyway, you were right. I didn’t have any context back then. I had absolutely no idea sex could be so…good.”

Amazing. Intense. Earth-shattering.

“Wait a minute. You—you’re sleeping with someone?” He turned, motioned toward Roarke getting into a beaten-up pickup. “With him?”

For a doctor he could be really slow.

“You have responsibilities,” he sputtered. “A child to raise.”

Right. She decided not to point out that that child wasn’t just hers.

“So?” she said yet again.

“So what kind of example are you setting for her by having a guy like that around?”

A guy like that? Hot? Ripped? Hung? Good with kids even if he didn’t know it? Marina leaned forward so there was no way Sam could hear her.

“And what kind of example did you set by fucking everything with a vagina at the hospital while we were still married?”